Progression
by Macx
Summary: Tag to Charge of This Post , Flack has to deal with the aftermath. Slash. TaylorFlack


TITEL: Progression  
a Denuo tag to Charge of this Post  
AUTHOR: Macx  
RATING: M  
FANDOM: CSI: New York  
PAIRING: Taylor/Flack  
SPOLIERS: Charge of this Post  
DISCLAIMER: CSI belongs to CBS, Alliance Atlantic, Jerry Bruckheimer, Anthony E. Zuiker and whoever else claims rights. We don't. Nu-uh! We just play with 'em.

Macx's Voice of Warning (aka Authors' Note): English is not our first language; it's German. This is the best we can do. Any mistakes you find in here, collect them and you might win a prize The spell-checker said everything's okay, but you know how trustworthy those thingies are...

**This was originall an adult-rated story, meaning NC-17. I cut out the offensive bits (just a few rather straight-forward words) and it's now regular M. You can find the unedited version on my homepage. This story was also meant to be part of an AU I write with Lara Bee, called Denuo (has paranormal elements in it). Since it's only one sentence referring to that, I left that in the story. You don't have to know Denuo to read this. For those who know me and those Denuo stories, have fun, too!**

* * *

Detective Don Flack stood in front of the full length mirror and gazed at his abdomen. Where there had been smooth skin before, dusted lightly by hair, there was now a landscape of scarring. He had seen the scars too often before, stared at them as they held his mutilated flesh together, as they healed into what could only be described as… hideous. Flack swallowed and carefully touched the thinner ones, then made his way across the nubs and ridges to the one wound that was more scar than skin now. It was as wide as his palm, the diameter too large to heal smoothly, and it was the injury where pieces of a bomb had penetrated his body. A dozen pieces lodged in his intestines, broken ribs, bone fractures everywhere, and nothing but blood and pain and weeks of hospital.

The doctors were pleased with his progress. Most were astounded at how fast he had recovered after the initial first week of hanging by a thread. Don knew little of those days, only fragments of memories, and the actual explosion was a blur to him. He really didn't want to remember pain and his guts hanging out, thank you very much. The intestinal damage was healing, with no neurological damage so far. He could eat light food again, instead of intravenous fluids. His bowels were working, his stomach handled non-greasy, non-spicy food well. Soon he might be able to enjoy a hot dog once more, but right now the very thought made him sick.

Don turned away from the mirror and quickly pulled a shirt over his scarred body. His face had fared better than his abdomen. There was only a faint reminder on his forehead and the burn/cut mark on his left cheek was disappearing. There would be next to no scarring, his doctors had said. As for the others underneath the shirt, they would stay.

Walking into the kitchen he made himself a coffee.

Flack was still on leave. He had no clean bill of health and while he dutifully attended the psych evaluations, his physical fitness wasn't what it had been. He needed to strengthen, to gain back muscle, and he needed to prove he could still work his old job. Two weeks from now there would be a physical exam, then maybe the test.

The dreams had grown less and he was sleeping full nights now. The psychological help was real help. Some of the others at the precinct shied away from psychologists, but Flack had found the conversations helped. Just talk about it all. No judgment, no one too close to him.

Don sighed and leaned his weight on his hands on the kitchen counter.

Too close.

Things had gotten complicated after the bomb. Before, they had been easy. Casual. Just once in a while. To ease the pain, to help a friend, to be with a warm body now and then. To pass the night with a companion who understood.

Don Flack wasn't gay. He liked both sexes. He enjoyed men and women, but in this job, a New York detective, liking men was better left in the closet. So he had been in that closet except for one person who knew who he was, what he liked.

And he liked it back.

He liked it enough to finally stay the nights. The first few casual encounters that never ended with him in Flack's bed over night or waking up with him in the morning.

But after the bomb, things grew more serious.

For both of them.

And Flack found he couldn't… he couldn't let him touch him.

A key turned in the lock of his apartment and he knew without looking who it was. There was only one person who had a second key to his place.

There were steps, then a warm presence behind him.

"Hey, you're up."

Flack turned, smiling slightly. "I don't sleep all day any more. I have the meds to thank for the near-comatose state."

Detective Mac Taylor smiled in turn. "Glad you're off them."

"So, how was your day?" Don asked lightly, moving out of the close proximity.

"Dead bodies, the usual suspects who are all innocent, and the innocents who are perfect suspects." Taylor got himself a glass of water and shrugged out of his suit jacket. "How are the daily soaps?"

"Driving me nuts. No wonder we have so many crack heads in this city. People can only suffer through soap operas when they're high."

The older man chuckled. "You could run down to the DVD place."

"Nah. Study the source, know the perp."

That got Flack another chuckle.

Taylor went into the bedroom to change into something a lot less official than a suit and tie. The jeans and t-shirt were a nice fit and Don had to force himself to stay where he was, not go over, slide an arm around the sturdy waist and kiss the man who had been his lover for so long now.

On and off.

Just need and relaxation.

Buddy fucks.

Never serious.

Until the bomb.

"Don? You okay?"

He blinked, suddenly aware than he had been unfocused. Mac was close, concerned eyes on his face. Don dredged up a smile.

"Yeah, sure."

Strong arms slid around his waist and he stiffened a little, then forced himself to relax. But Taylor had noticed. He noticed a lot. That's why he was a CSI. He was good, damn good, and Flack knew he couldn't hide forever.

Just a little longer.

Just a little bit, he prayed.

If he caved now, if he gave in, things would complicate. Mac… Mac was an easy buddy fuck, right? Nothing more.

Nothing. More.

Don gritted his teeth.

His needs had changed throughout the past months. He had gotten used to the other man's presence, his care, his smiles and kisses, his caresses and his presence in his bed. Not just for sex, but for companionship.

"Liar," Mac said softly, then leaned over to kiss him.

Flack answered the kiss, enjoyed the intimate contact, and he really liked the way Mac's hands slid over his back and caressed him tenderly. The kiss grew into more, more than they had in the last weeks. Mac had been cautious because of the injuries, because of Don's limited movement, because of the medication that had made the younger man drowsy and too sleepy for anything more intense than a good-night kiss.

Now… now he wasn't. No part of him was sleepy. He kissed back as good as he got, heard a soft noise of need coming from somewhere, and realized it was him.

His resolve was crumbling and Mac wasn't really making it any easier. This wasn't just simple and easy any more.

Mac's hands slid underneath the shirt and Don stiffened. He broke the kiss and gasped, moving out of the embrace that opened immediately. Mac's eyes held a strange expression, but mostly a silent question.

"Don?"

"I… Mac, I… not now, okay?"

He walked over to the couch and flopped down, wishing he was alone, wishing Mac wasn't here. Another part of him wanted to be held, wanted to feel those gentle, strong hands on him. He had yearned for it ever since he had been coherent enough to fight against the haze of pain medication. Taylor had been at the hospital every single day Don had been there. Mac had been the first thing he had seen when he opened his eyes. He faintly remembered a familiar voice in his dreams.

Mac had been there for him. All the way. He knew. Don knew he knew. He had processed him. He had seen the wounds throughout all stages, but the scars… he hated the scars. The scars were… horrible.

The couch dipped as his lover sat down. Mac didn't say a word. Don closed his eyes, so wanting to be held, but if things got too far…

They hadn't ever. He had been in bed or gone to bed with his shirt on. Mac had cuddled with him, they had kissed, but nothing more. Never had there been a hand on his scars.

"Don?"

The touch was there again, a hand sliding down his arm, to his hand, squeezing.

He let it.

The hand continued the calming caress, then was suddenly on his stomach; just resting there.

Flack unconsciously held his breath.

"Breathe, Don," Mac said calmly. "Breathe. It's okay."

Blue eyes filled with desperation met a much more balanced gaze. "Mac…"

The hand was a warm weight, resting on his mauled stomach, just the shirt between it and the scars.

"I know," Taylor murmured.

His fingers moved, skimming over the fabric.

Flack's stomach fluttered and he tried not to push it away. It felt good and nice and familiar. So many times before they had been a lot more intimate than this. Mac had been there for him all the way, had practically started to live at his place. He had seen the raw wounds, had saved Flack's life with his hands in his lover's innards…

Buttons popped and Flack closed his eyes, hands balling into fists.

Mac leaned over him, pressing their lips together. The kiss was slow at first, then became a lot more dominant. Flack was pushed back to lie down, whimpering as the kiss stirred up more than just his blood. Too long. It had been too long.

And then the hand was inside the shirt and he screwed his eyes shut, breath catching, as Mac's fingers skimmed over the ravaged flesh.

"Don, look at me."

He fought the command, the order. But the Marine was still there in the man he loved; the order was given with the power of rank and experience, coupled with the plea of his lover.

Blue eyes opened, filled with more emotions than Don really wanted to show, and Mac smiled, resting his palm over the biggest mark.

"It's not ugly, Don."

"It is," he managed.

"No. The scar means you survived."

Mac bore his own scars, the most prominent right under his left collar bone, but it was small compared to what marred the abdomen now laid bare to Taylor's eyes.

Fingers explored what had mended in irregular lines and burn marks. Don's stomach fluttered and he couldn't help the moan escaping his lips as those fingers went higher, to his nipples, playing with them. Mac kissed him again, wet and sloppy, then proceeded to nip and lick down his neck.

Don sank deeper into the couch, hips twitching up. "Mac," he begged as his lips were released, swollen and glistening wetly.

The older man smiled, making Don almost whine with need.

So long. Too long. He was ready to come right here and now in his pants. God, that would be so embarrassing.

Again Taylor lowered his head to pay close attention to his neck, then he began to lick a wet path down to Flack's belly button. There was no way he could evade the huge scar and Don whimpered as the wetness trailed over it.

"Not ugly," Mac repeated.

Before Don could reply, Taylor pushed a hand down the front of the sweats.

Don cried out, the cry transforming into a deep groan that held Mac's name. God, he had been starved.

Breathing hard he looked at his lover. There was a smug smile on his face.

"Bastard," Don whispered.

"You needed it. I needed it."

Flack's eyes were drawn to the visible evidence pushing against the front of the jeans from inside. Mac was very much aroused, but he hadn't come.

"I want you, Don," Taylor said and leaned closer again.

Don wanted him, too. Badly. The very thought had him tingle with expectation. Taylor smiled.

"I don't care about the scars."

"I do," he replied softly.

"Why? It doesn't change that you're one hell of a handsome guy and could pick anyone. Scars or no scars. Some chicks even dig them."

That had Flack push up, nearly dislodging his lover. His stomach was constricting painfully.

"I'm not sleeping around, Taylor!" he snapped, gathering his shirt together, hiding his abdomen from sight. "Is that what you think of me? Great!"

Mac grabbed his wrist, stopping him. "I wasn't implying that, Don. I never would. I know you're exclusive. You have been ever since…"

Ever since that day Mac had turned to him, riddled with pain and despair because of the death of his wife. Before that day, they had been colleagues. Flack had felt a hint of attraction to the older man, but he hadn't made detective then, had still been a patrol officer, and they had run into each other on a few crime scenes. Then his promotion had come through and work had changed. He and Taylor's criminalistic team ran into each other every other crime scene he worked.

It was nice to watch Mac Taylor in motion, but Don had never thought he would get a chance to get to know him more intimately. After Claire's death, that had changed. Broken by his pain, hiding it all from the world, Mac had hid something else as well -- his need for companionship. Not a relationship, just… release.

"I just want you to know that no matter what happens, I love you for more than a handsome body. The scars tell me what I nearly lost and I'm not ready to lose again," Mac told him seriously.

Don stared at him, the words registering, but not completely. "You… love me?"

"Yes."

Don still stared.

"I've been too scared to tell you, too afraid of your reaction." Mac tugged at the wrist and Flack let got of the shirt, which fell open again. "But the bomb… it opened my eyes. I won't lose you, Don. Not like this. I want you to know that."

Flack felt his emotions somersault at the words. He had been terrified of them, had wanted them, had shied away from thinking them, and now Mac had said them out loud. The buddy fuck had turned to much more for him a long time ago, but he had never doubted where this relationship was in regards of the two of them. Relief. Simple relief and companionship.

"I didn't know," he only managed. "I didn't think you'd want this."

"But you felt more for a while. You wanted this."

Damn CSI. Flack tried to steady his nerves. "Yeah."

"Sorry for taking so long, Don."

He laughed weakly. "Don't be."

Dark eyes regarded him steadily and Flack swallowed.

"Why?" he asked.

"Why what?"

"Why would you want something broken, Mac? You have the choice… there are dozens of choices!"

Taylor stared at him, a mix of different emotions in his eyes. Finally his expression shifted into a mix of anger and decisiveness.

"Why would you want some old guy?" he asked harshly.

Flack's eyes widened. "You're not old!" he blurted.

Mac was close to fifteen years his senior, but that had never changed the fact that Flack found him attractive, wanted him.

"And you're no broken. Scarred, yes. But not broken. This," and Mac ran his palm over the scarred flesh, "is not broken. It's not hideous. I'm not disgusted. I want to touch you, Don. I want to kiss you and hold you. I want you with me."

He hated the scars, but he couldn't turn away from the words. He had been there for Mac throughout the years, as a friend, a colleague, and for the past year also as an ally. It had come as a shock to Flack to discover that the CSI was a paranormal, a Seeker, but it had never changed his loyalties, only strengthened them.

"What about… the others?"

"Stella knows. She kicked my ass in the hospital. Told me to tell you. The others, I don't know. You want them to know?"

"I don't know. Later maybe. Not now."

Mac smirked. "It's an open secret I spend a lot of time here."

"Don't ask, don't tell?" Don hazarded a guess.

"That's the army." Mac kissed him, lips just brushing over Flack's. "Let's keep it private for now."

"Sounds good."

Don lost himself in the heady sensation of what had just been revealed and the skilful kissing. Part of him wondered about the age difference. About all the problems they could run into. Fifteen years were a lot of time in some relationships, but for the past four years it hadn't been much of one.

The hand was back, driving him nuts, and Don forgot all about the troublesome thoughts.

"Bed," Mac murmured. "I don't want to do this on the couch."

They made it to bed and again, Mac was pushing open the shirt, paying more attention to the hideous scarring than Don wanted anyone, even his lover, to do.

"It's okay, Don. Breathe," Mac murmured, peeling the shirt completely away, exposing him.

"I hate it," he replied.

"Don't."

He drew a shuddering breath, drawn between arousal from the caresses and disgust at the puckered flesh. When the stitches had come out and gauze hadn't covered it any more, Don had started to hate this injury. This scarring.

"You're still the most handsome guy I know, Don," Mac went on. "I love you. Scars and all."

Taylor stripped out of his shirt, revealing a sturdy, powerful body with his own scar standing out bright and visible. Don found himself reaching up and touching it.

Phosphor burn.

Old.

Mac's past.

"I love you," Mac repeated, proceeding to arouse him skilfully. "All of you. Don't hate part of what I love."

"How can you love this?"

"I just do. I'm not ashamed of it either."

Flack swallowed hard, then finally relaxed under the gentle ministrations. He let himself slide fully into the enjoyment of Mac Taylor loving him, and he moaned deep in this throat, his lover's name woven into the needy sound. They moved together, a steady, slow rhythm, building up.

When he came the second time, it left him depleted and tired and so very, very satisfied. Don felt the mattress shift as Mac disappeared briefly, then he came back and cleaned him off with slow, even motions. Flack turned to the warm presence next to him, his arms wrapping around Mac, drawing him close. They kissed languidly. Mac pillowed his head on Don's shoulder, his hand coming to rest over the mauled abdomen, a warm, gentle weight.

Flack felt his breathing return to normal and he enjoyed the playful fingers on his skin. His own were carding into Taylor's short hair.

"When's your physical?" Mac murmured.

"Two weeks."

"I think we can get you into shape till then," the ex-Marine teased.

"You think so, hm?"

Mac chuckled. "Yes. Let's start with your stamina first."

Don felt himself blush lightly. It had been rather embarrassing to shoot off so quickly. Mac twisted his head to smile up at him, a teasing sparkle in his eyes. Flack huffed, but he answered the kiss and hummed as Mac blanketed him. There was no fever, no hunger, in the kiss. Just the languidness and deeper emotions.

Don felt himself drift off, holding his lover, feeling warm and safe and very satisfied. Things would change now. He knew it. They had changed with the bomb. Forever.

° ° °

Mac Taylor watched his lover fall asleep, smiling as the young features smoothed out. He would never have dreamed of having this man in his bed, for more than one night, or hear him say he loved him. Don Flack was a very handsome man, with a great body, incredibly expressive blue eyes, and a quick, sharp humor. Mac had always liked him, even when he had only run into him once or twice as a patrol officer. He had come to appreciate the other man, in many ways, in different ways, and he had come to feel more.

Stella had been the first to remark on his changing mood. After Claire he had pulled back, had drowned himself in work, had been single-minded and sometimes bitter, and he had slept less and less. Sleep had come after that fateful evening when he had drunk a little too much, but not enough to be called unrestrained; just slightly tipsy. He had been at that bar, somewhere in Manhattan, and he had run into Flack.

The night had ended in his bed, both of them naked, sweaty, bringing each other off with barely any words, and Flack had left shortly after a shuddering release.

Neither had said a word.

But it had happened again and again. Without alcohol. With intent. With need. And one night neither left the bed. Mac had woken to the sight of Don Flack in his bed, looking deliciously sleepy and well-fucked, and something inside of him had shivered with need.

Things had gone on from there. Things had grown more intense.

Until three months ago a lunatic had exploded a bomb that had nearly killed Flack.

Mac had had rather vivid nightmares of the moment he had spent saving the other man's life, with his hands inside his guts. He had spent every moment he could at the hospital and it had been in that place Stella had truly kicked his ass. Verbally, of course.

"You love him, Mac. I can see it. When you look at him, lying there, it's like… like part of you is there. What are you waiting for? Another incident like this? Tell him, Mac."

"What if it's the wrong thing to say?"

"You don't know that. You've been seeing each other for how long? Four years? Mac Taylor, you're a detective! You're a criminalist! And you can't see the obvious?"

He had smiled slightly. "Probably not. The trees and the forest…"

She had only given him that warm smile. "Tell him."

And he had. He had looked at the slender, slightly taller man. Too young for him, part of him had screamed. So handsome and too young. Robbing the cradle. This would never work.

But the expression in the blue eyes had been very telling. The fear, the indecision, the disgust at what this bomb had left him with. Mac didn't mind the scars. The scars told him what he had nearly lost.

This had been their first real sexual encounter since the bomb. Too many drugs had dulled Don's senses, had made him sleepy, doped him really good, and half of the time he had fallen asleep throughout a kiss. It had embarrassed him to no end, if he remembered it at all, and Mac smiled at the memory.

The ringing from his cell phone interrupted his musings and Mac cursed under his breath. He slid out of bed and grabbed the offensive device. The caller-ID said it was Stella.

"Hey," she greeted him. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

"And Flack?"

"Sleeping."

"Did you finally talk to him?"

Mac chuckled as he walked into the kitchen to get himself some water. "Yes."

"Good for you. Took you only how many more weeks?" she teased.

"Stella…"

"Yes, yes, I know. Men are so complicated." She laughed.

Mac shook his head. "Anything else you want, Detective Bonasera?"

"No. That's it. Give Don a kiss from me. Tell him we still miss him. It's not the same without him."

"I will. See you tomorrow."

The team had come by once in a while to visit Flack, or they had called. Danny had been the most frequent visitor, mostly accompanied by Lindsey, and Mac had always made himself scarce. No sense in making them wonder. His team probably suspected anyway. They were all too good not to notice.

"Stella?" a tired voice asked and Mac turned, scowling at his lover.

Don was up, leaning against the door jamb, his shirt thrown on once more. One arm was wrapped around his stomach, a protective gesture he hadn't been able to drop yet.

"Yeah." Mac walked over to him and kissed him. "Let's go back to bed."

Don smiled a little. "Sounds good."

But they stayed, trading small kisses, and Mac trapped the protective arm between Don's and his bodies, encircling the lean waist with his arms. There was a light stirring from Don, but Mac doubted his lover was up for anything. This had exhausted him and he needed to rest, replenish his energy.

"C'mon, bed," he only said as he released Don's mouth.

This time, sleep claimed them both.

° ° °

When he returned to work a month later, it was to the applause of a squad room full of patrol officers and detectives. Everyone was nodding at him and clapped him on the back. He talked to a lot of people that day, including his lieutenant. He had seen some of his colleagues throughout recovery, but they were still there, clapping their hands. Flack was strangely touched by it, laughing as he discovered a huge box of donuts, more than enough for the whole precinct, and a pot of fresh coffee on his desk. It was a desk that was squeaky clean, nothing littering his inbox.

It didn't take more than three days for him to be back out on crime scenes, and when Mac arrived, crime scene kit in hand, his professional self, it was so easy to return to the routine.

Nothing had changed in that regard. They were friends and respected colleagues, and the lovers stayed at home, behind closed doors. It was all professional, with the usual banter, with no private smiles or touches. They handled the crime scene and Flack went back to the precinct to follow up on leads, track down suspects, weapons and witnesses.

Routine.

Like before.

With a few very important changes.

° ° °

Lindsey Monroe was a country girl and from a place the city bred called the untamed wild or the backwater country. She liked the life in New York, but she wouldn't have exchanged a childhood in Montana with one in such a bustling, over-crowded city. Because of where she came from, some people didn't know how to handle her, how to talk to her, or where to put her. That suited Lindsey just fine. As a criminalist it paid to have people misjudge you.

Country life had also taught Lindsey to watch and learn instead of making up your mind right away. Things were never as they seemed, and when it came to her boss and a certain detective, things were definitely not as they seemed. Even before the bomb there had been this easy-going friendship with something deeper, but after the explosion that had nearly killed Flack, the 'easy-going' had changed.

Mac had grown more intense. He had spent a lot of time with their injured friend. And the times Lindsey had been over at Flack's place, keeping him up to date, just talking, sharing things, she had discovered a few more clues. Tiny things. Really, really small and easily missed.

There was something there and it had grown and grown stronger.

She smiled to herself as she worked the crime scene, glancing over to where Mac and Don were talking. Professional, no closeness other than being friends, no secret smiles, no private remarks. No, to the outside they looked like friends. Good friends.

Just as it should be.


End file.
